War  and  Love 


By  Richard  Aldington 
IMAGES— OLD  AND  NEW 


WAR  AND  LOVE 


(1915-1918) 


BY 


RICHARD  ALDINGTON 


Boston 

The  Four  Seas  Company 

1919 


Copyright,  ipip,  by 
The  Four  Seas  Company 


The  Four  Seas  Press 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


Cool 

FOREWORD 


To  F.  S.  Flint : 

I  would  like  to  dedicate  this  little  book  to  you  since, 
among  my  friends,  you  will  I  think  be  most  likely  to 
understand,  through  similar  experiences,  the  moods  it 
attempts  to  express. 

Like  "Images"  this  little  book  comes  out  of  a  con- 
flict, but  whereas  in  the  former  the  conflict  was  of  the 
spirit  here  it  is  of  the  flesh.  "Images"  consisted  of 
short-hand  notes,  as  it  were,  to  illustrate  the  moods  of 
a  spirit  torn  between  the  beauty  one  imagines  and  the 
ugliness  that  is  thrust  upon  one.  The  conclusion — if 
any — that  I  wanted  drawn  was  a  kind  of  tolerance,  an 
affection  for  "carnal  wisdom"  as  well  as  for  "divine 
wisdom."  I  don't  think  I  succeeded;  the  matter  was 
not  interesting  to  most  readers  and  the  manner — more 
or  less  novel  at  the  time — repelled  many  who  might 
otherwise  have  been  interested. 

Here  I  have  written  less  for  myself  and  you  andl 
others  who  are  interested  in  subtleties  and  more  for 
the  kind  of  men  I  lived  with  in  camp  and  in  the  line. 
(That  they  did  not  understand  very  much  is  a  matter 
for  cheerful  acceptance.)  Perhaps  I  have  lost  some- 
thing by  this ;  but  you  must  know  that,  in  intention  at 
least,  this  is  a  book  by  a  common  soldier  for  common 
soldiers. 

[S] 


FOREWORD 

Just  now  I  spoke  of  conflict;  I  did  not  mean  war 
in  its  universal  or  journalistic  sense  but  in  its  innpinge- 
ment  upon  the  individual.  These  notations  of  moods 
attempt  to  express  that  conflict  between  the  delight  of 
the  flesh,  which  we  call  love  or  passion,  and  that  agony 
of  the  flesh  which  is  known  only  to  the  infantrymen  of 
the  line. 

Even  you  may  feel  that  these  notes  on  war  are  over- 
strained, morbidly  self-conscious,  petulant  perhaps. 
That  may  be,  but  (taking  into  account  all  enthusiasms 
and  devotions)  I  affirm  that  they  represent  to  some  de- 
gree the  often  inarticulate  feelings  of  the  ordinary 
civilized  man  thrust  suddenly  into  these  extraordinary 
and  hellish  circumstances — feelings  of  bewilderment, 
bitterness,  dumb  revolt  and  rather  piteous  weakness. 
Poor  human  flesh  is  so  easily  rent  by  the  shattering  of 
explosive  and  the  jagged  shear  of  metal.  Those  of  us 
who  have  seen  it  will  never  be  quite  happy  again. 

You  may  feel  also  an  almost  exaggerated  passion  or 
sensualism  in  the  second  part  of  the  book.  That  may 
be,  but  it  expresses  the  soldier's  mood ;  a  reckless  and 
disregard  of  rules  for  conduct,  a  yearning  of  the  flesh, 
a  wild  grasping  at  life. 

I  think  I  have  told  you  that  when  I  came  back  from 
France  last  year  I  was  quite  overwhelmed  by  the 
beauty  there  seemed  to  be  in  women's  faces.  Well, 
can  you  understand  that  after  those  endless  days  of 
mud  and  destruction  and  racked  nerves  the  body  is 
wrought  up  to  such  an  intensity  that  the  passion  of  love 
becomes  almost  unendurable  in  its  piercing  beauty? 

[6] 


FOREWORD 

After  the  war  if  we  are  both  still  alive — which  seems 
highly  improbable — we  shall  have  much  to  talk  of  and 
this  little  book  will  be  a  sort  of  memoir  of  the  last  two 
years,  rather  poignant  to  me  and  a  little  pathetic  in  that 
it  falls  so  short  of  what  it  attempts.  The  army  is  not 
an  ideal  environment  for  literature. 
Yours  ever, 

^  rcFARD  Aldington 
February,  nr' 


[7] 


A  few  of  these  poems  have  appeared  before  in  books 
and  periodicals,  as  follows :  Some  Intagist  Poets,  igij 
(Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  &  Constable)  ;  New  Paths, 
(1918)  C.  W.  Beaumont,  London);  Reverie,  1917, 
(Privately  printed,  Cleveland,  Ohio) ;  The  Dial;  The 
Seven  Arts;  The  Egoist. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 

Page 

FOREWORD            5 

PROEM             13 

VICARIOUS   ATONEMENT I4 

LEAVE-TAKING 1 5 

BONDAGE 16 

A   moment's   INTERLUDE 18 

DAWN               19 

CAPTIVE 20 

PRAYER              .        .  21 

on  the  march 22 

our  hands 23 

fatigues 24 

the  wine  cup 25 

sorcery  of  words 27 

the  lover 28 

april  lieder 29 

genius  loci 30 

three  little  girls 3 1 

living  sepulchres 32 

machine  guns 33 

picket  i,  ii 34 

the  faun  complains 35 

trench  idyll 36 

rattle-field         38 

''ivy  and  violet  .  .  .  " •      •      •  39 

a  ruined  house 4o 

time's    CHANGES 4I 

IN  THE  TRENCHES,  I,  II 4-2 

A   VILLAGE 44 

BARRAGE 46 

BOMBARDMENT 47 

[9] 


CONTENTS 

Page 

A  YOUNG  TREE 48 

DISDAIN 49 

AN    EARTH   GODDESS 50 

H.  S.  R 52 

E.   T 53 

SOLILOQUY,   I 54 

SOLILOQUY,    II 55 

DAUGHTER  OF  ZEUS 56 

DEFEAT            57 

CIVILIANS              60 

DOUBT 61 

TERROR            63 

APATHY 65 

THE  BLOOD  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN 68 

PART  II 

PRELUDE 73 

AN    OLD    SONG 74 

SONG 75 

SONG  FOR  HER 76 

POSSESSION yy 

AN    INTERLUDE 78 

BEFORE    PARTING 79 

PRAYER 81 

''\  DO  NOT  EVEN  SCORN  .  .  .  '' 83 

ABSENCE 85 

HER   MOUTH 86 

DAYBREAK             87 

SLEEP 89 

A  soldier's  song 90 

NIGHTS  OF  LOVE 91 

GAIN 92 

POSTLUDE              93 

EPILOGUE 94 

rioi 


PART  I 

JVar 


"They  said  that  this  mysteo-y  never  shall  cease: 
The  priest  promotes  war,  and  the  soldier  peace. 

Blake. 


PROEM 

Out  of  this  turmoil  and  passion, 

This  implacable  contest, 

This  vast  sea  of  effort, 

I  would  gather  something  of  repose, 

Some  intuition  of  the  inalterable  gods, 

Some  Attic  gesture. 

Each  day  I  grow  more  restless. 

See  the  austere  shape  elude  me. 

Gaze  impotently  upon  a  thousand  miseries 

And  still  am  dumb. 


May,  igi^ 


[13] 


VICARIOUS  ATONEMENT 

This  is  an  old  and  very  cruel  god  .  .  . 

We  will  endure ; 

We  will  try  not  to  wince 

When  he  crushes  and  rends  us. 

If  indeed  it  is  for  your  sakes, 
If  we  perish  or  moan  in  torture, 
Or  stagger  under  sordid  burdens 
That  you  may  live — 
Then  we  can  endure. 

If  our  wasted  blood 

Makes  bright  the  page 

Of  poets  yet  to  be; 

If  this  our  tortured  life 

Save  from  destruction's  nails 

Gold  words  of  a  Greek  long  dead; 

Then  we  can  endure, 

Then  hope, 

Then  watch  the  sun  rise 

Without  utter  bitterness. 

But,  O  thou  old  and  very  cruel  god. 

Take,  if  thou  canst,  this  bitter  cup  from  us. 


14] 


LEAVE-TAKING 

Will  the  world  still  live  for  you 
When  I  am  gone? 

Will  the  straight  garden  poppy 

Still  spout  blood  from  its  green  throat 

Before  your  feet? 

Will  the  five  cleft  petals  of  the  campion 

Still  be  rose-coloured, 

Like  five  murdered  senses,  for  you? 

Will  your  trees  still  live, 
Thrust  metallic  bosses  of  leafage 
From  the  hill-side  in  the  summer  light ; 
Will  the  leaves  sway  and  grow  darker, 
Rustle,  swirl  in  the  gales; 
Decay  into  gold  and  orange, 
Crinkle  and  shrivel. 
And  fall  silently  at  last 
On  to  frosty  grass? 

Will  there  be  sun  for  you; 
The  line  of  near  hills 
Cut  out  in  thin  blue  steel 
Against  red  haze? 

Will  there  be  silence? 

Will  not  even  the  clean  acrid  sea 
Turn  stale  upon  your  lips? 

Will  the  world  die  for  you 
As  it  dies  for  me? 

[15] 


BONDAGE 

I  have  been  a  spendthrift — 

Droppmg  from  lazy  fingers 

Quiet  coloured  hours, 

Fluttering  away  from  me 

Like  oak  and  beech  leaves  in  October. 

I  have  lived  keenly  and  wastefuUy, 
Like  a  bush  or  a  sun  insect — 
Lived  sensually  and  thoughtfully, 
Loving  the  flesh  and  the  beauty  of  this  world- 
Green  ivy  about  ruined  towers, 
The  out-pouring  of  the  grey  sea, 
And  the  ecstasy 
Of  a  pale  clear  sky  at  sunset. 

I  have  been  prodigal  of  love 

For  critics  and  for  lonely  places; 

I  have  tried  not  to  hate  mankind ; 

I  have  gathered  sensations 

Like  ripe  fruits  in  a  rich  orchard . . . 

All  this  is  gone; 
There  are  no  leaves,  no  sea, 
No  shade  of  a  rich  orchard. 
Only  a  sterile,  dusty  waste, 
Empty  and  threatening. 

I  long  vainly  for  solitude 
And  the  lapse  of  silent  hours; 

[16] 


I  am  frantic  to  throw  off 

My  heavy  cloth  and  leather  garments, 

To  set  free  my  feet  and  body ; 

And  I  am  so  far  from  beauty 

That  a  yellow  daisy  seems  to  clutch  my  heart 

With  eager  searching  petals, 

And  I  am  grateful  even  to  humility 

For  the  taste  of  pure,  clean  bread. 


[17] 


A  MOMENT'S  INTERLUDE 

One  night  I  wandered  alone  from  my  comrades'  huts ; 
The  grasshoppers  chirped  softly 
In  the  warm  misty  evening ; 
Bracken  fronds  beckoned  from  the  darkness 
With  exquisite  frail  green  fingers; 
The  tree  gods  muttered  affectionately  about  me, 
And  from  the  distance  came  the  grumble  of  a  kindly 
train. 

I  was  so  happy  to  be  alone, 
So  full  of  love  for  the  great  speechless  earth, 
That  I  could  have  laid  my  cheek  in  the  wet  grasses 
And  caressed  with  my  lips  the  hard  sinewy  body 
Of  Earth,  the  cherishing  mistress  of  bitter  lovers. 


[i8] 


DAWN 

The  grim  dawn  lightens  thin  bleak  clouds; 
In  the  hill-clefts  beyond  the  flooded  meadows 
Lies  death-pale,  death-still  mist. 

We  trudge  along  wearily, 
Heavy  with  lack  of  sleep, 
Spiritless,  yet  with  pretence  of  gaiety. 

The  sun  brings  crimson  to  the  colourless  sky ; 
Light  gleams  from  brass  and  steel — 
We  trudge  on  wearily — 

O  God,  end  this  bleak  anguish 
Soon,  soon,  with  vivid  crimson  death, 
End  it  in  mist- pale  sleep ! 


[19] 


CAPTIVE 

They  have  torn  the  gold  tettinx 
From  my  hair; 

And  wrenched  the  bronze  sandals 
From  my  ankles. 

They  have  taken  from  me  my  friend 
Who  knew  the  holy  wisdom  of  poets, 
Who  had  drunk  at  the  feast 
Where  Simonides  sang. 

No  more  do  I  walk  the  calm  gardens 
In  the  white  mist  of  olives; 
No  more  do  I  take  the  rose-crown 
From  the  white  hands  of  a  maiden. 

I,  who  was  free,  am  a  slave; 
The  Muses  have  forgotten  me. 
The  gods  do  not  hear  me. 

Here  there  are  no  flowers  to  love ; 

But  afar  off  I  dream  that  I  see 

Bent  poppies  and  the  deathless  asphodel. 


[20] 


PRAYER 

I  am  a  garden  of  red  tulips 

And  late  daffodils  and  bay-hedges, 

A  small  sunk  garden 

About  an  oblong  pool 

With  three  grey  lead  Dutch  tanks — 

I  am  this  garden  shattered  and  blown 

With  a  day-long  western  gale 

And  bursts  of  rapid  rain. 

There  are  dank  petals  in  the  ruffled  waters, 
And  muddy  flowers  upon  the  path. 
The  grass  is  covered  with  torn  leaves. 

God  of  gardens,  dear  small  god  of  gardens, 

Grant  me  faint  glow  of  sunlight, 

A  last  bird  hopping  in  the  quiet  haze, 

Then  let  the  night  swoop  swiftly. 

Fold  round  and  crush  out  life 

For  ever. 


[21] 


ON  THE  MARCH 

Bright  berries  on  the  roadside, 

Clear  among  your  dusty  leaves, 

Red,  mottled  berries. 

You  are  as  beautiful 

As  the  points  of  a  girl's  breasts ; 

You  are  as  firm  and  fresh  .  .  . 

Beauty  of  the  morning  sun 

Among  the  red  berries 

Of  early  Setember, 

You  tear  at  my  breast. 

Your  light  crushes  me 

With  memory  of  freedom  lost 

And  warm  hours  blotted  out. 

I  will  throw  away  rifle  and  leather  belt. 

Straps,  khaki  and  heavy  nailed  boots, 

And  run  naked  across  the  dewy  grass 

Among  the  firm  red  berries ! 

I  will  be  free 

And  sing  of  beauty  and  the  women  of  Hellas, 

Of  rent  seas  and  the  peace  of  olive  gardens, 

Of  these  rough  meadows. 

Of  the  keen  welcome  smell  of  London  mud! 

I  will  be  free  .  .  . 

Party— HALT! 


[22] 


OUR  HANDS 

I  am  grieved  for  our  hands,  our  hands  that  have 
caressed  roses  and  women's  flesh,  old  lovely  books  and 
marbles  of  Carrara.  I  am  grieved  for  our  hands  that 
were  so  reverent  in  beauty's  service,  so  glad  of  beauty 
of  tressed  hair  and  silken  robe  and  gentle  fingers,  so 
glad  of  beauty  of  bronze  and  wood  and  stone  and  rust- 
ling parchment.     So  glad,  so  reverent,  so  white. 

I  am  grieved  for  our  hands  .  .  . 

December,  iqi6 


[23] 


FATIGUES 

The  weariness  of  this  dirt  and  labour,  of  this  dirty, 
melting  sky ! 

For  hours  we  have  carried  great  bundles  of  hay  from 
barge  to  truck,  and  from  truck  to  train. 

The  weariness  of  this  dirt  and  labour!  But — look! 
Last  June  those  heavy  dried  bales  waved  and  glit- 
tered in  the  fields  of  England ! 

Cinque- foil  and  clover,  buttercups,  fennel,  thistle  and 
rue — daisy  and  ragged  robin,  wild  rose  from  the 
hedge,  shepherd's  purse  and  long  sweet  nodding 
stalks  of  grass ! 

Heart  of  me,  heart  of  me,  be  not  sick  and  faint  though 
fingers  and  arms  and  head  ache;  you  bear  the  gift 
of  the  glittering  meadows  of  England.  Here  are 
bundles  from  Somerset,  from  Wales,  from  Hereford, 
Worcester,  Gloucester — names  we  must  love,  scented 
with  summer  peace. 

Handle  them  bravely,  meadow-sweet,  sorrel,  lush,  flag 
and  arid  knap-weed,  flowers  of  marsh  and  cliff, 
handle  them  bravely! 

Dear  crushed  flowers !  And  you,  yet  fragrant  grasses, 
I  stoop  and  kiss  you  furtively. 

Dear  gentle  perished  sisters,  speak,  whisper  once  more, 
tell  me  next  June  again  you  will  dance  and  whisper 
in  the  wind. 


[24] 


THE  WINE-CUP 

Life  was  to  us  an  amphora  of  wine 

Pressed  from  full  grapes 

Upon  the  warm  slopes  of  the  Cyclades — 

Wine  that  brings  light 

Into  the  gloomiest  eyes  of  man, 

Wine,  cooled  and  mingled  for  the  eager  lip. 

We  had  but  gazed  upon  the  amphora, 
Touching  the  figures  painted  on  its  flanks- 
Achilles  reining  in  his  four  great  horses 
Or  Maenads  dancing  to  a  Faun's  pipe. 

We  had  but  sipped  the  wine, 
Watching  its  changing  hue — 
Deep  purple  in  the  shadowy  amphora 
But  crimson  where  the  light 
Pierces  the  crystal  cup. 

And  if  we  thought: 

"True,  the  cup  soon  is  emptied. 

The  amphora  rings  hollow 

And  our  veins  lack  warmth  and  life" — 

It  did  but  give  a  gentle  melancholy 

Making  our  present  joy  more  keen  and  clear. 

But  now 

Cold,  terrible,  unseen  hands 

Have  dragged  the  cup  from  us ; 

[25] 


We  are  distracted 

As  a  poor  goatherd  of  the  Thracian  hills 

Robbed  of  his  flock  and  sun-tanned  wife 

By  Scythian  robbers, 

Hurrying  in  anguish  to  the  unfriendly  town 

As  we  to  death. 


[26] 


SORCERY  OF  WORDS 

"The  poetry  of  winter" — these  words,  remembered 
from  some  aesthetic  essay,  return  and  return  to  my 
memory  with  an  ironic  persistence.  It  happened 
yesterday  when  the  ground  was  sheeted  in  frost. 
The  sky  rose  upon  the  pale  green  coverlet  of  dawn, 
bare  trees  silhouetted,  frozen  pools  of  water. 

"The  poetry  of  winter" — yes,  that  was  poetry,  the 
breath  of  the  gods — light  glowing  and  changing,  the 
motionless  trees,  clear  air. 

Yes,  one  can  be  hungry,  sore,  unshaven,  dirty,  eyes  and 
head  aching,  limbs  shivering,  and  yet  love  beauty. 

From  the  depths  I  cry  it,  from  the  depths  which  echo 
with  the  ironic  phrase  "the  poetry  of  winter,"  from 
the  depths  I  cry  it ! 

You,  who  are  clean  and  warm  in  the  delicate  leisure  of 
a  flower-scented  library,  strain  your  hearing,  listen 
across  the  clamour  of  the  age,  for  a  whisper  that 
comes  to  you  so  faintly,  so  ironically — "the  poetry  of 
winter !" 


[27] 


THE  LOVER 

Though  I  have  had  friends 

And  a  beautiful  love 

There  is  yet  one  lover  I  await  above  all. 

She  will  not  come  to  me 

In  the  time  of  soft  plum-blossoms 

When  the  air  is  gay  with  birds  singing 

And  the  sky  is  a  delicate  caress; 

She  will  come 

From  the  midst  of  vast  clamour 

With  a  mist  of  stars  about  her 

And  great  beckoning  plumes  of  white  smoke 

Upon  her  leaping  horses. 

And  she  will  bend  suddenly  and  clasp  me ; 
She  will  clutch  me  with  fierce  arms 
And  stab  me  with  a  kiss  like  a  wound 
That  bleeds  slowly. 

But  though  she  will  hurt  me  at  first 

In  her  strong  gladness 

She  will  soon  soothe  me  gently 

And  cast  upon  me  an  unbreakable  sleep 

Softly  for  ever. 


[28] 


APRIL  LIEDER 

I 

When  I  rose  up  this  morning 
In  a  ruined  town  in  France, 
I  heard  the  sparrows  twitter 
In  gardens  bare  and  grey 
And  watched  the  sunbeams  dance. 

O  glad  young  April  day! 

II 

When  I  lie  down  this  evening 
In  a  damp  cellar  of  France 
I'll  hear  the  big  guns  booming 
By  bare  and  blasted  lanes, 
And  watch  the  shrapnel  dance. 

0  wild  sad  April  rains! 


[29] 


GENIUS  LOCI 

This  place  is  evil 

Some  bitter  god  dwells  here. 

For  when  I  think  here  of  my  love's  face 

It  is  not  tranquil, 

Nor  eager,  nor  passionate, 

Nor  flushed  with  desire, 

Nor  rejoicing  in  beauty, 

But  pale  in  anger  against  me 

With  determined  eyes 

Thwarting  my  will 

And  thrusting  upon  me  langour, 

Life- weariness. 

Surely,  surely,  I  know 
There  is  evil  in  this  place. 


[30] 


THREE  LITTLE  GIRLS 

(For  My  Sisters) 

Marianne,  Madeline,  Alys, 

Three  little  girls  I  used  to  see 

Two  months  ago, 

Three  little  girls  with  fathers  killed 

And  mothers  lost, 

Three  little  girls  with  broken  shoes 

And  hard,  sharp  coughs. 

Three  little  girls  who  sold  us  sweets 

Too  near  the  shells. 

Three  little  girls  with  names  of  saints 

And  angels'  eyes. 

Three  little  girls  where  are  you  now? 

Marianne,  Madeline,  Alys. 


[31] 


LIVING  SEPULCHRES 

One  frosty  night  when  the  guns  were  still 

I  leaned  against  the  trench 

Making  for  myself  hokku 

Of  the  moon  and  flowers  and  of  the  snow 

But  the  ghostly  scurrying  of  huge  rats 
Swollen  with  feeding  upon  men's  flesh 
Filled  me  with  shrinking  dread. 


[32] 


MACHINE  GUNS 

Gold  flashes  in  the  dark, 

And  on  the  road 

Each  side,  behind,  in  front  of  us, 

Gold  sparks 

Where  the  fierce  bullets  strike  the  stones. 

In  a  near  shell-hole  lies  a  wounded  man. 
The  stretcher-bearers  bending  over  him  ; 
And  at  our  feet 

Cower  shrinkingly  against  the  ground 
Dark  shadowy  forms  of  men. 

Only  we  two  stand  upright ; 

All  differences  of  life  and  character  smoothed  out 

And  nothing  left 

Save  that  one  foolish  tie  of  caste 

That  will  not  let  us  shrink. 


[33] 


PICKET 

I 
First  Watch:  Night 

The  stars  which  night  by  night  of  late 
Were  plain  to  all  men's  eyes 
Are  veiled  in  cloud, 
As  my  clear  happy  mind 
In  this  brief  solitude. 

II 

Last  Watch:  Dawn 
Dusk  and  deep  silence  .  .  . 

Three  soldiers  huddled  on  a  bench 
Over  a  red-hot  brazier, 
And  a  fourth  one  stands  apart 
Watching  the  cold  rainy  dawn. 

Then  the  familiar  sound  of  birds — 

Clear  cock-crow,  caw  of  rooks. 

Frail  pipe  of  linnet,  the  "ting!  ting!"  of  chaffinches, 

And  over  all  the  lark 

Outpiercing  even  the  robin .  . . 

Wearily  the  sentry  moves 
Muttering  the  one  word:  "Peace." 


[34] 


THE  FAUN  COMPLAINS 

They  give  me  aeroplanes 

Instead  of  birds  and  moths  ; 

Instead  of  sunny  fields 

They  give  me  mud-holes ; 

And  for  my  day-long,  night-long  sacred  hush, 

(Flutter  of  leaves,  bee-murmurs  in  the  flowers, 

Ripe  seeded  grass  just  stirring  into  music) 

A  hush  wherein  one  seemed  to  hear 

The  invisible  wheels  of  burning  stars 

Echoing  upon  the  tiled  paths  of  heaven — 

For  this  they  give  me  noise, 

Harsh  clangours  of  breaking  metal, 

Abrupt  huge  bursts  of  flame. 

And  for  my  woodland  playmates. 

Dryads,  yellow  subtle  fauns, 

Naked  wanton  hamadryads, 

And  stealthy  water-girls 

Who  stole  my  honey  and  fruits 

When  I  lay  sleeping  by  their  pools — 

For  these  they  give  me  men, 

Odd,  loud-voiced,  fearsome  men, 

Who  mock  my  little  horns  and  pointed  ears! 


[35] 


TRENCH  IDYLL 

We  sat  together  in  the  trench, 

He  on  a  lump  of  frozen  earth 

Blown  in  the  night  before, 

I  on  an  unexploded  shell; 

And  smoked  and  talked,  like  exiles, 

Of  how  pleasant  London  was. 

Its  women,  restaurants,  night  clubs,  theatres. 

How  at  that  very  hour 

The  taxi-cabs  were  taking  folk  to  dine . . . 

Then  we  sat  silent  for  a  while 

As  a  machine-gun  swept  the  parapet. 

He  said : 

"I've  been  here  on  and  off  two  years 

And  seen  only  one  man  killed." 

"That's  odd." 

"The  bullet  hit  him  in  the  throat; 
He  fell  in  a  heap  on  the  fire-step. 
And  called  out:  'My  God!  dead!'" 

"Good  Lord,  how  terrible !" 

"Well,  as  to  that,  the  nastiest  job  I've  had 
Was  last  year  on  this  very  front 
Taking  the  discs  at  night  from  men 
Who'd  hung  for  six  months  on  the  wire 
Just  over  there. 

[36] 


The  worst  of  all  was 

They  fell  to  pieces  at  a  touch. 

Thank  God  we  couldn't  see  their  faces ; 

They  had  gas  helmets  on  .  .  ." 

I  shivered ; 

"It's  rather  cold  here,  sir;  suppose  we  move?" 


[37] 


BATTLE-FIELD 

The  wind  is  piercing  chill 
And  blows  fine  grains  of  snow 
Over  this  shell-rent  ground ; 
Every  house  in  sight 
Is  smashed  and  desolate. 

But  in  this  fruitless  land, 

Thorny  with  wire 

And  foul  with  rotting  clothes  and  sacks 

The  crosses  flourish — 

Ci-git,  ci-git,  ci-git  .  .  . 

"Ci-git  I  soldat  Allemana, 

Pries  pour  lui." 


[38] 


"IVY  AND  VIOLET,  WHAT  DO  YE  HERE. . .  ?' 

Sometimes  in  bitter  mood  I  mock  myself : 
"Half  ape,  half  ass,  servant  and  slave. 
Where  are  your  dreams  gone  now, 
Where  your  fierce  pride? 
Whither  goes  your  youth? 
And  how  will  you  dare  touch  again 
Dear  slender  women  with  those  disfigured  hands? 
Or  bare  your  long  dishonoured  body 
To  the  contemptuous  sun? 
How  live  after  this  shame?" 

And  all  my  answer: 

"So  that  hate  poison  not  my  days, 
And  I  still  love  the  earth, 
Flowers  and  all  living  things, 
And  my  song  still  be  keen  and  clear, 
I  can  endure." 


[39] 


A  RUINED  HOUSE 

Those  who  lived  here  are  gone 

Or  dead  or  desolate  with  grief ; 

Of  all  their  Hfe  here 

Nothing  remains 

Except  their  trampled,  dirtied  clothes 

Among  the  dusty  bricks, 

Their  marriage  bed,  rusty  and  bent. 

Thrown  down  aside  as  useless; 

And  a  broken  toy  left  by  their  child  .  . 


[40] 


TIME'S  CHANGES 

Four  years  ago  to-day  in  Italy 

I  gathered  wild  flowers  for  a  girl — 

Thick  scented  broom,  wild  sword-flowers, 

The  red  anemones  that  line  the  ways 

And  the  frail-throated  freezia 

Which  lives  beneath  the  orange  boughs 

And  whose  faint  scent  to  me 

Is  love's  own  breath,  its  kiss  .  .  , 

To-day  in  sunless,  barren  fields 

I  gather  heads  of  shells, 

Splinters  of  shrapnel,  cartridges  .  .  . 

What  shall  I  gather 
Four  years  from  to-day  ? 


[41] 


IN  THE  TRENCHES 


Not  that  we  are  weary, 

Not  that  we  fear, 

Not  that  we  are  lonely 

Though  never  alone — 

Not  these,  not  these  destroy  us  ; 

But  that  each  rush  and  crash 

Of  mortar  and  shell, 

Each  cruel  bitter  shriek  of  bullet 

That  tears  the  wind  like  a  blade. 

Each  wound  on  the  breast  of  earth. 

Of  Demeter,  our  Mother, 

Wounds  us  also. 

Severs  and  rends  the  fine  fabric 

Of  the  wings  of  our  frail  souls. 

Scatters  into  dust  the  bright  wings 

Of  Psyche ! 

II 

Impotent, 

How  impotent  is  all  this  clamour, 

This  destruction  and  contest  .  .  . 

Night  after  night  comes  the  moon 

Haughty  and  perfect; 

Night  after  night  the  Pleiades  sing 

And  Orion  swings  his  belt  across  the  sky. 

Night  after  night  the  frost 

Crumbles  the  hard  earth. 

[42] 


Soon  the  spring  will  drop  flowers 

And  patient,  creeping  stalk  and  leaf 

Along  these  barren  lines 

Where  the  huge  rats  scuttle 

And  the  hawk  shrieks  to  the  carrion  crow. 

Can  you  stay  them  with  your  noise? 
Then  kill  winter  with  your  cannon, 
Hold  back  Orion  with  your  bayonets 
And  crush  the  spring  leaf  with  your  armies ! 


[43] 


A  VILLAGE 

I 

Now  if  you  saw  my  village 

You'd  not  think  it  beautiful, 

But  flat  and  commonplace — 

As  I'd  have  called  it  half  a  year  ago  .  .  . 

II 

But  when  you've  pondered 

Hour  upon  chilly  hour  in  those  damned  trenches 

You  get  at  the  significance  of  things, 

Get  to  know,  clearer  than  before, 

What  a  tree  means,  what  a  pool, 

Or  a  black,  wet  field  in  sunlight. 

One  gets  to  know, 
In  that  shell-pierced  silence 
Under  the  unmoved,  ironic  stars. 
How  good  love  of  the  earth  is. 

So  I  go  strolling, 

Hands  deep  in  pockets,  head  aslant, 

And  eyes  screwed  up  against  the  light. 

Just  loving  things 

Like  any  other  lunatic  or  lover. 

Ill 

For  there's  so  much  to  love, 
So  much  to  see  and  understand, 
So  much  naivete,  whimsicality. 
Even  in  a  dull  village  like  this. 

[44] 


Pigeons  and  fowls  about  a  pointed  haystack  ; 
The  red-tiled  barns  we  sleep  in ; 
The  profile  of  the  distant  town 
Misty  against  the  leaden-silver  sky; 
Two  ragged  willows  and  a  fallen  elm 
With  an  end  of  broken  wall 
Glimmering  through  evening  mist — 
All  worthy  Rembrandt's  hand, 
Rembrandt  who  loved  homely  things  .  .  . 

Then  there's  the  rain  pool  where  we  wash, 

Skimming  the  film-ice  with  our  tingling  hands; 

The  elm- fringed  dykes  and  solemn  placid  fields 

Flat  as  a  slate  and  blacker. 

There's  the  church — 

The  poorest  ever  built  I  think — 

With  all  its  painted  plaster  saints 

Straight  from  the  rue  St.  Sulpice, 

Its  dreadful  painted  windows, 

And  Renaissance  "St.  Jacques  le  Majeur" 

Over  the  porch  .  .  . 

IV 

To-day  the  larks  are  up, 

The  willow  boughs  are  red  with  sap, 

The  last  ice  melting  on  the  dykes ; 

One  side  there  stands  a  row  of  poplars, 

Slender  amazons,  martial  and  tall, 

And  on  the  other 

The  sunlight  makes  the  red-tiled  roofs  deep  orange 


[45] 


BARRAGE 

Thunder, 

The  gallop  of  innumerable  Walkyrie  impetuous  for 
battle, 

The  beating  of  vast  eagle  wings  above  Prometheus, 

The  contest  of  tall  barbaric  gods  smitten  by  the  ham- 
mer of  Thor, 

Pursuit !     Pursuit !     Pursuit ! 

The  huge  black  dogs  of  hell 

Leaping,  full-mouthed,  in  murderous  pursuit! 


[46] 


BOMBARDMENT 

Four  days  the  earth  was  rent  and  torn 

By  bursting  steel, 

The  houses  fell  about  us  ; 

Three  nights  we  dared  not  sleep. 

Sweating,  and  listening  for  the  imminent  crash 

Which  meant  our  death. 

The  fourth  night  every  man, 
Nerve-tortured,  racked  to  exhaustion. 
Slept,  muttering  and  twitching. 
While  the  shells  crashed  overhead. 

The  fifth  day  there  came  a  hush  ; 

We  left  our  holes 

And  looked  above  the  wreckage  of  the  earth 

To  where  the  white  clouds  moved  in  silent  lines 

Across  the  untroubled  blue. 


[47] 


A  YOUNG  TREE 

(for  j.  w.) 

There  are  so  few  trees  here,  so  few  young  trees, 

That  Fate  might  have  been  merciful 

And  turned  aside  the  shock  of  flame 

That  strewed  your  branches  on  the  torn-up  earth, 

Ending  the  joy  we  had  in  your  fresh  leaves. 

And  every  dear  young  lad  that's  killed 

Seems  to  cry  out: 

"We  are  so  few,  so  very  few, 

Could  not  our  fate  have  been  more  merciful?" 


[48] 


DISDAIN 

Have  the  gods  then  left  us  in  our  need 
Like  base  and  common  men? 
Were  even  the  sweet  grey  eyes 
Of  Artemis  a  lie, 

The  speech  of  Hermes  but  a  trick, 
The  glory  of  Apollonian  hair  deceit? 

Desolate  we  move  across  a  desolate  land. 

The  high  gates  closed. 

No  answer  to  our  prayer ; 

Naught  left  save  our  integrity. 

No  murmur  against  Fate 

Save  that  we  are  juster  than  the  unjust  gods. 

More  pitiful  than  they. 

April,  19  ij. 


149] 


AN  EARTH  GODDESS 

After  the  Advance,  i^ij 

You  are  not  the  august  Mother 

Nor  even  one  of  her  comely  daughters, 

But  you  gave  shelter  to  men, 

Hid  birds  and  little  beasts  within  your  hands 

And  twined  flowers  in  your  hair. 

Sister,  you  have  been  sick  of  a  long  fever, 
You  have  been  torn  with  throes 
Fiercer  than  childbirth  and  yet  barren; 
You  are  plague-marked ; 
There  are  no  flowers  in  your  hair. 

I  have  seen  your  anguish,  O  Sister, 
I  have  seen  your  wounds. 
But  now  there  is  come  upon  you  peace, 
A  peace  unbroken,  profound. 
Such  as  came  upon  the  mother  of  King  Eteocles 
When  both  her  sons  were  dead. 
For  in  your  agony.  Sister, 
When  men  bruised  and  ravished  you. 
You  remembered  the  wide  kindness  of  our  mother 
And  gave  shelter  to  each  of  them  that  rent  you, 
Shielded  them  from  death  with  your  delicate  body. 
And  received  their  clotted  corpses  into  your  once  pure 
breast. 

And  now  since  you  have  endured. 
Since  for  all  your  wrong  and  bitter  pain 

[so] 


There  came  no  hatred  upon  you 

But  only  pity  and  anguish 

Such  as  the  mother  of  King  Eteocles  felt 

Gazing  upon  her  two  angry  sons — 

Because  of  this,  your  peace  is  wonderful. 

Underfoot  are  a  few  scant  grasses 

Amid  rusty  ruin; 

Overhead  the  last  of  your  larks 

Cries  shrilly  before  the  broken  clouds  ; 

And  for  your  sake,  O  my  Sister, 

O  daughter  of  our  great  Earth-Mother, 

Because  of  your  old  pain 

And  long-suffering  and  sweetness, 

Because  of  the  new  peace 

Which  lies  so  deep  upon  you, 

The  chains  of  my  bitterness  are  broken, 

The  weight  of  my  despair  leaves  me. 


(SI] 


H.  S.  R. 

(Died  of  wounds,  April,  ipiy) 

You  are  dead — 

You,  the  kindly,  courteous, 

You  whom  we  loved, 

You  who  harmed  no  man 

Yet  were  brave  to  death 

And  died  that  other  men  might  live. 

Far  purer,  braver  lips  than  mine  should  praise  you, 

Far  nobler  hands  than  mine  record  your  loss, 

Yet  since  your  courteous  high  valour  scorned  no  man, 

I,  who  but  loved  you  from  the  depths,  can  greet  you, 

Salute  your  grave  and  murmur,  ** Brother, 

Hail  and  farewell !  You  are  dead." 


[52] 


E.  T. 

(Died  of  wounds,  May,  ipi^) 

You  too  are  dead, 

The  coarse  and  ignorant, 

Carping  against  all  that  was  too  high 

For  your  poor  spirit  to  grasp, 

Cruel  and  evil-tongued — 

Yet  you  died  without  a  moan  or  whimper. 

O,  not  I,  not  I  should  dare  to  judge  you! 
But  rather  leave  with  tears  your  grave 
Where  the  sweet  grass  will  cover  all  your  faults 
And  all  your  courage  too. 

Brother,  hail  and  farewell! 


[531 


SOLILOQUY—I 

No,  Vm  not  afraid  of  death, 

(Not  very  much  afraid,  that  is) 

Either  for  others  or  myself ; 

Can  watch  them  coming  from  the  Hne 

On  the  wheeled  silent  stretchers 

And  not  shrink, 

But  munch  my  sandwich  stoically 

And  make  a  joke,  when  "it"  has  passed. 

But — the  way  they  wobble! — 

God !  that  makes  one  sick. 

Dead  men  should  be  so  still,  austere, 

And  beautiful, 

Not  wobbling  carrion  roped  upon  a  cart  . 

Well,  thank  God  for  rum. 


[54] 


SOLILOQUY— II 

I  was  wrong,  quite  wrong; 

The  dead  men  are  not  always  carrion. 

After  the  advance, 

As  we  went  through  the  shattered  trenches 

Which  the  enemy  had  left. 

We  found,  lying  upon  the  fire-step, 

A  dead  English  soldier. 

His  head  bloodily  bandaged 

And  his  closed  left  hand  touching  the  earth, 

More  beautiful  than  one  can  tell, 

More  subtly  coloured  than  a  perfect  Goya, 

And  more  austere  and  lovely  in  repose 

Than  Angelo's  hand  could  ever  carve  in  stone. 


[55] 


DAUGHTER  OF  ZEUS 
(For  J.  C.) 

"Tuerons  la  lune." — ^Maxinetti. 

No! 

We  will  not  slay  the  moon, 

For  she  is  the  fairest  of  the  daughters  of  Zeus, 

Of  the  maidens  of  Olympus. 

And  though  she  be  pale  and  yet  more  pale 

Gazing  upon  dead  men 

And  fierce  disastrous  strife, 

Yet  for  us  she  is  still  a  frail  lily 

Floating  upon  a  calm  pool — 

Still  a  tall  lady 

Comforting  our  human  despair. 


[S6] 


DEFEAT 

Though  our  hearts  were  mad  and  strong 

With  love  for  you, 

Though  we  fought  for  you, 

Though  our  remnant  struggled 

And  not  one  was  false, 

We  are  beaten. 

Beauty,  for  your  sake  we  are  lost. 

For  you  we  are  crushed. 

Scorn  and  bitterness  are  cast  at  us. 

And  fools  who  hate  you 

Are  preferred  to  us. 

Treacherous  wonderful  lady, 

Despoina !     Basilea !     Potnia ! 

You  have  betrayed  us — 

Yet,  hurt  and  overwhelmed  and  in  despair 

We  can  but  turn  to  you  again 

And  sing  our  love  for  you. 

White  goddess  of  beauty. 

Take  these  roses — 

It  is  our  blood  that  colours  them ; 

Take  these  lilies — 

White  as  our  intense  hearts ; 

Take  these  wind-flowers — 

Frail  as  our  strength  spent  in  your  service; 

Take  these  hyacinths — 

Graven  with  the  sigh  of  our  lost  days; 

Take  these  narcissus  blooms 

Lovely  as  your  naked  breasts. 

[S7l 


White  goddess  of  beauty, 
Though  the  stars  rose  against  you 
And  the  steeds  of  the  day 
Were  arrayed  against  you, 
Though  the  might  of  the  sea 
And  the  menace  of  night 
Were  against  you, 
We  would  be  with  you 
And  worship  you. 

Ah,  goddess!  Lovely,  implacable, 

What  wine  shall  we  bring. 

What  cup  for  your  lips  ? 

Blood,  blood  of  our  hearts  for  a  drink. 

Our  lives  for  a  cup. 

White  grape  and  red  grape  and  pale 

Dim  scarlet  of  weaned  mouths. 

Flowers  and  the  music  of  trees, 

Hills  golden  with  sun 

And  the  sea,  still  and  blue  and  divine — 

These  are  yours 

But  not  ours. 

We  are  scorned  for  your  sake. 

We  are  broken, 

Ah,  Goddess !  You  turn  from  our  pain ! 

And  once  we  begged  of  you  death, 

Death,  quiet  and  smiling. 

Death  cold  as  the  wind  of  the  sea. 

Now,  love  has  lighted  our  hearts. 

Now,  though  we  are  beaten  and  crushed, 

Grant  us  Ufe. 

[58] 


Grant  us  life  to  suffer  for  you, 

To  feed  your  delicate  lips 

With  the  strength  of  our  blood, 

To  crown  you  with  flowers  of  our  pain 

And  hail  you  with  cries  of  our  woe, 

Yet  sweet  and  divine. 

Grant  us  life! 

If  we  die  there  is  none  upon  earth 

To  feed  the  fierce  pride  of  your  heart ; 

There  is  none  so  fine  and  so  keen, 

Th^re  is  none  to  sing  at  your  feast. 

Grant  us  life, 

And  gold  lyre  and  box-wood  pipe 

Shall  sound  from  hill-top  and  shore, 

From  the  depth  of  the  city  street, 

From  under  the  horror  of  battle, 

Faint  as  we  faint  in  despair, 

Yet  clear  in  your  praise. 

We  dream  of  white  crags. 

Skies  changing  and  swift. 

Of  rain  upon  earth. 

Of  flowers  soft  as  your  fingers 

And  bright  as  your  garments  of  love. 

We  have  none  of  these  things ; 
Only  strife  and  despair  and  pain. 
Lands  hideous  and  days  disfigured, 
A  grey  sea  and  a  muddy  shore. 
But  for  you  we  forget  all  this, 
We  forget  our  defeat. 
All,  all,  for  your  sake. 

[59] 


CIVILIANS 

Why  should  you  try  to  crush  me  ? 
Am  I  so  Qirist-Hke? 

You  beat  against  me, 

Immense  waves,  filthy  with  refuse. 

I  am  the  last  upright  of  a  smashed  break- water 

But  you  shall  not  crush  me 

Though  you  bury  me  in  foaming  slime 

And  hiss  your  hatred  about  me. 

You  break  over  me,  cover  me ; 

I  shudder  at  the  contact; 

Yet  I  pierce  through  you 

And  stand  up,  torn,  dripping,  shaken. 

But  whole  and  fierce. 


[60] 


DOUBT 


Can  we,  by  any  strength  of  ours, 
Thrust  back  this  hostile  world 
That  tears  us  from  ourselves, 
As  a  child  from  the  womb, 
A  weak  lover  from  light  breasts? 

Is  there  any  hope? 

Can  we  believe 

That  not  in  wild  perversity, 

In  blinding  cruelty, 

Has  flesh  torn  flesh, 

Has  soul  been  torn  from  soul? 

Must  we  despair? 

Throw  back  upon  the  gods  this  taunt 
That  even  their  loveliest  is  at  best 
Some  ineffectual  lie? 

II 

Sand  in  the  gale  whirls  up, 

Pricks  and  stifles  our  flesh, 

Blinds  and  deafens  our  sense 

So  that  we  cannot  hear 

The  crumbling  downfall  of  the  waves 

Nor  see  the  limpid  sunlight  any  more. 

But  could  we  thrust  from  us 
This  threat,  this  misery, 

[6i] 


Borrow  the  mountain's  strength 

As  now  its  loneliness, 

Hurl  back  this  menace  on  itself, 

Crush  bronze  with  bronze — 

Why,  it  would  be  as  if  some  tall  slim  god. 

Unburdened  of  his  age-long  apathy. 

Took  in  his  hand  the  thin  horn  of  the  moon 

And  set  it  to  his  lips 

And  blew  sharp  wild  shrill  notes 

Such  as  our  hearts,  our  lonely  hearts, 

Have  yearned  for  in  the  dumb  bleak  silences. 

Ill 

Ah !  Weak  as  wax  against  their  bronze  are  we, 
Ah !  Faint  as  reed-pipes  by  the  water's  roar. 
And  driven  as  land-birds  by  the  vast  sea  wind. 


[62 


TERROR 


Those  of  the  earth  envy  us, 
Envy  our  beauty  and  frail  strength ; 
Those  of  the  w^ind  and  the  moon 
Envy  our  pain. 

II 

For  as  a  doe  that  has  never  born  child 
We  were  swift  to  fly  from  terror; 
And  as  fragile  edged  steel 
We  turned,  we  pierced,  we  endured. 

Ill 

We  have  known  terror : 

The  terror  of  the  wind  and  silent  shadows. 

The  terror  of  great  heights, 

The  terror  of  the  worm, 

The  terror  of  thunder  and  fire. 

The  terror  of  water  and  slime, 

The  terror  of  horror  and  fear, 

The  terror  of  desire  and  pain — 

The  terror  of  apathy. 

IV 

As  a  beast,  as  an  arrow  of  pine, 

Terror  cleft  us, 

Tore  us  in  envy  away. 

So  that  for  month  upon  month 

Pain  wore  us,  hope  left  us,  despair  clutched  us. 

[63] 


For  they  of  the  earth  envied  us, 
Envied  our  beauty  and  strength. 


Yet  because,  though  we  faltered  and  wept. 
We  held  fast,  clung  close  to  our  love, 
Scorned  hate  even  as  they  scorned  us, 
Some  god  has  lightened  our  lives, 
Given  back  the  cool  mouth  of  song 
And  the  hands  that  blossom  of  fire, 
Given  too  the  month  crushed  like  a  flower 
Which  unpetals  in  marvellous  ways. 
The  limbs  that  are  hard  and  straight 
With  maidenly  thews  and  blood. 
Given  these  so  that  day  is  aflame 
And  night  shot  golden  with  shafts. 

VI 

We  have  suffered,  we  have  bled, 
And  those  of  the  wind  and  the  moon 
Envy  our  pain,  the  pain  of  the  terror, 
The  delight  no  terror  could  slay. 


[64] 


APATHY 

Come  down  the  road  and  do  not  speak. 

You  cannot  know  how  strange  it  is 

To  walk  upon  a  grey  firm  road  again, 

To  feel  the  noiseless  waves  of  air  break  on  one's  flesh. 

You  do  not  speak,  you  do  not  look  at  me ; 
Just  walk  in  silence  on  the  grey  firm  road 
Guessing  my  mood  by  instinct,  not  by  thought — 
For  there  is  no  weapon  of  tongue  or  glance 
So  keen  that  it  can  stir  my  apathy, 
Can  stab  that  bitterness  to  hope, 
Can  pierce  the  humour  to  despair. 

Silence  fits  the  mood  then — silence  and  you. 

The  trees  beside  the  road — can  you  interpret 
These  fragments  of  leaf-music. 
Here  a  phrase,  here  a  sort  of  melody 
That  dies  to  silence  or  is  broken 
By  a  full  rustling  that  is  discord? 
Can  you  interpret  such  a  simple  thing? 

Can  I  interpret  this  blank  apathy, 
This  humourous  bitterness? 

Lean  on  the  bridge  now — do  not  speak — 
And  watch  the  coloured  water  slipping  past, 
While  I  struggle  with  myself. 
Confront  half-impulses,  half-desires, 
Grapple  with  lustreless  definitions, 

[65] 


Grin  at  my  inarticulate  impotence 
And  so  fall  back  on — apathy ! 

The  bridge  has  three  curved  spans, 

Is  made  of  weathered  stones, 

And  rests  upon  two  diamond-pointed  piers — 

Is  picturesque. 

(I  have  not  lost  all  touch  and  taste  for  life, 

See  beauty  just  as  keenly,  relish  things.) 

The  water  here  is  black  and  specked  with  white ; 

Under  that  tree  the  shallows  grow  to  brown. 

Light  amber  where  the  sunlight  straggles  through — 

But  yet,  what  colour  is  it  if  you  watch  the  reeds 

Or  if  you  only  see  the  trees'  reflection? 

Flat  on  the  surface  rest  the  lily  leaves 

(Some  curled  up  inwards,  though,  like  boats) 

And  yellow  heads  thrust  up  on  fine  green  throats. 

Two — three — a  dozen — watch  now — demoiselle  flies 

Flicker  and  flutter  and  dip  and  rest 

Their  beryl-green  or  blue,  dark  Prussian  blue,  frail 

wings 
On  spits  and  threads  of  water-plant. 
Notice  all  carefully,  be  precise,  welcome  the  world. 
Do  I  miss  these  things?  Overlook  beauty? 
Not  even  the  shadow  of  a  bird 
Passing  across  that  white  reflected  dloud. 

And  yet  there's  always  something  else^- 
The  way  one  corpse  held  its  stiff  yellow  fingers 
And  pointed,  pointed  to  the  huge  dark  hole 
Gouged  between  ear  and  jaw  right  to  the  skull  .  .  . 

[66] 


Did  I  startle  you  ?     What  was  the  matter  ? 
Just  a  joke  they  told  me  yesterday, 
Really,  really,  not  for  ladies'  ears. 
Forgive  me ;  Fll  not  laugh  so  suddenly  again. 


[67] 


THE  BLOOD  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN 

I 

Give  us  back  the  close  veil  of  the  senses, 

Let  us  not  see,  ah,  hide  from  us 

The  red  blood  splashed  upon  the  walls, 

The  good  red  blood,  the  young,  the  lovely  blood 

Trampled  unseeingly  by  passing  feet, 

Feet  of  the  old  men,  feet  of  the  cold  cruel  women. 

Feet  of  the  careless  children,  endlessly  passing  .  .  . 

II 

Day  has  become  an  agony,  night  alone  now. 
That  leisurely  shadow,  hides  the  blood-stains, 
The  horrible  stains  and  clots  of  day-time. 

Ill 

All  the  garments  of  all  the  people. 

All  the  wheels  of  all  the  traffic, 

All  the  cold  indifferent  faces, 

All  the  fronts  of  the  houses. 

All  the  stones  of  the  street — 

Ghastly!  Horribly  smeared  with  blood-stains. 

IV 

The  horror  of  it ! 

When  a  woman  holds  out  a  white  hand 
Suddenly  to  know  it  drips  black  putrid  blood ; 
When  an  old  man  sits,  serene  and  healthy. 
In  clean  white  linen,  with  clean  white  hair, 

[68] 


Suddenly  to  know  the  linen  foully  spotted, 

To  see  the  white  hair  streaked  with  dripping  blood. 

V 

O  these  pools  and  ponds  of  blood, 
Slowly  dripped  in,  slowly  brimming  lakes, 
Blood  of  the  young  men,  blood  of  their  bodies. 
Squeezed  and  crushed  out  to  purple  the  garments  of 

Dives, 
Poured  out  to  colour  the  lips  of  Magdalen, 
Magdalen  w^ho  loves  not,  w^hose  sins  are  loveless. 
O  this  steady  drain  of  the  w^eary  bodies, 
This  beating  of  hearts  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer, 
This  bitter  indifference  of  the  old  men, 
This  exquisite  indifference  of  women. 

VI 

Old  men,  you  will  grow  stronger  and  healthier 
With  broad  red  cheeks  and  clear  hard  eyes — 
Is  not  your  meat  and  drink  the  choicest? 
Blood  of  the  young,  dear  flesh  of  the  young  men? 

VII 

Ah,  you  women,  cruel  exquisite  women, 
What  a  love-fountain  is  poured  out  for  you, 
What  coloured  streams  for  your  pleasure ! 

Go  your  ways,  pass  on,  forget  them ; 
Give  your  lips  and  breasts  to  the  old  men, 
The  kindly,  impetuous,  glowing,  old  men! 
They  who  will  love  you  indeed,  indeed,  dears, 

[69] 


Not  as  we  do,  drained  of  our  blood,  with  weeping. 
Sell  yourselves,  oh,  give  yourselves  to  the  cripples, 
Give  yourselves  to  the  weak,  the  poor  forgotten, 
Give  yourselves  to  those  who  escape  the  torture 
And  buy  their  blood  from  the  pools  with  weight  of 
gold. 

Give  yourselves  to  them,  pass  on,  forget  us  ; 

We,  any  few  that  are  left,  a  remnant. 

Sit  alone  together  in  cold  and  darkness, 

Dare  not  face  the  light  for  fear  we  discover 

The  dread  woe,  the  agony  in  our  faces, 

Sit  alone  without  sound  in  bitter  dreaming 

Of  our  friends,  our  dear  brothers,  the  young  men, 

Who  were  mangled  and  abolished,  squeezed  dry  of 

blood, 
Emptied  and  cast  aside  that  the  lakes  might  widen. 
That  the  lips  of  the  women  might  be  sweet  to  the  old 

men. 

VIII 
Go  your  ways,  you  women,  pass  and  forget  us. 
We  are  sick  of  blood,  of  the  taste  and  sight  of  it; 
Go  now  to  those  who  bleed  not  and  to  the  old  men. 
They  will  give  you  beautiful  love  in  answer ! 
But  we,  we  are  alone,  we  are  desolate, 
Thinning  the  blood  of  our  brothers  with  weeping, 
Crying  for  our  brothers,  the  men  we  fought  w^ith, 
Cr}dng  out,  mourning  them,  alone  with  our  dead  ones ; 
Praying  that  our  eyes  may  be  blinded 
Lest  we  go  mad  in  a  world  of  scarlet. 
Dripping,  oozing  from  the  veins  of  our  brothers. 

January,  igrS. 

[70] 


PART  II 

Love 


'Amor  si  dolce  mi  sa  fa  sentire 
Che,  s'io  allora  non  perdessi  ardire, 
Farei,   parlando,    innamorar  la   gente," 

Dante. 


PRELUDE 

How  could  I  love  you  more? 

I  would  give  up 

Even  that  beauty  I  have  loved  too  well 

That  I  might  love  you  better. 

Alas,  how  poor  the  gifts  that  lovers  give — 

I  can  but  give  you  of  my  flesh  and  strength, 

I  can  but  give  you  these  few  passing  days 

And  passionate  words  that  since  our  speech  began 

All  lovers  whisper  in  all  ladies'  ears. 

I  try  to  think  of  some  one  lovely  gift 

No  lover  yet  in  all  the  world  has  found ; 

I  think:  If  the  cold  sombre  gods 

Were  hot  with  love  as  I  am 

Could  they  not  endow  you  with  a  star 

And  fix  bright  youth  for  ever  in  your  limbs? 

Could  they  not  give  you  all  things  that  I  lack? 

You  should  have  loved  a  god ;  I  am  but  dust. 
Yet  no  god  loves  as  loves  this  poor  frail  dust. 


[73] 


AN  OLD  SONG 

I  have  no  lust  nor  care 

To  sing  of  Mary, 
I  praise  the  quaint  sweet  air 

Of  a  mortal  lady. 

She  is  not  clothed  in  sad 

Raiment  like  Maiy 
But  in  cloth  and  silk  that  is  glad 

And  full  seemly. 

Her  eyes  are  not  tear-rimmed 

Like  those  of  Mary, 
Only  with  love  are  they  dimmed 

When  she  kisses  me. 

By  God,  though  she  be  God's  mother, 

I  care  not  for  Mary, 
Only  to  serve  this  other 

That  is  so  dear  to  me. 

Therefore,  sweet  friends,  I  know, 
By  the  splendour  of  Mary, 

Into  uttermost  hell  shall  I  go 
For  sweet  sin  with  this  lady. 


[74] 


SONG 

"Lady,  let  me  woo  you  with  song. 

Words  choicely  got, 
With  strains  intense  and  long." 

She  smiled  and  answered  not. 

"Lady,  let  me  sing  your  praises 

All  through  the  day, 
Hymn  you  with  lovely  praises." 

She  smiled  and  turned  away. 

Then  I  came  and  caught  her  hand. 

Saying  without  fear : 
"You  are  mine — do  you  understand?" 

She  smiled :  "How  I  love  you,  dear !" 


[75] 


SONG  FOR  HER 

Why  should  love  be  dumb  and  go 
Hidden  in  a  shroud  of  lies? 
Why  should  lovers  fear  to  tell 
What  they  see  in  women's  eyes? 
What  it  is  all  lovers  know 
And  the  world  should  know  as  well. 

Is  a  woman's  heart  of  ice? 
Is  a  woman's  sex  of  snow? 
I've  a  mistress  and  I  see 
Warm  desire  that  moves  me  so 
I  would  give  the  whole  world  thrice 
To  express  it  worthily. 

Every  night  that  we  can  steal 
Close,  as  lovers  do,  we  lie. 
And  the  wanton  things  we  do 
And  the  amorous  pangs  we  feel 
Told,  would  make  the  hard  world  cry, 
"Teach  us  how  to  love  like  you !" 

Yet  if  you  would  love  aright 
You  must  love,  like  us,  with  all 
Sense  and  spirit,  flesh  and  breath  ; 
Then  indeed  it  may  befall 
That  you  burn  w^ith  our  clear  light — 
Light  that  only  fades  with  death. 


[76] 


POSSESSION 

I  have  held  you  with  joy  and  passion, 
With  ecstasy  sharp  like  pain — 
Blind  with  your  kisses,  dumb  with  desire, 
Shuddering  at  the  fierce  bliss  of  your  touch. 

Thus  I  have  loved  you,  thus  held  you  mine; 

But  I  must  hold  you  in  grief  and  anguish. 

In  the  long  agony  of  childbirth ; 

I  must  hold  you  by  shame, 

I  must  hold  you  by  despair, 

I  must  hold  you  by  sin, 

I  must  hold  you  in  death. 

I  must  possess  you  utterly 

And  utterly  must  you  possess  me ; 

So  even  if  that  dreamer's  tale 

Of  heaven  and  hell  be  true 

There  shall  be  two  spirits  rived  together 

Either  in  whatever  peace  be  heaven 

Or  in  the  icy  whirlwind  that  is  hell 

For  those  who  loved  each  other  more  than  God, 

So  that  the  other  spirits  shall  cry  out : 

"Ahi !  Look  how  the  ancient  love  yet  holds  to  them 

That  these  two  ghosts  are  never  driven  apart 

But  kiss  with  shadowy  kisses  and  still  take 

Joy  from  the  mingling  of  their  misty  limbs !" 


[77] 


AN  INTERLUDE 

There  is  a  momentar}^  pause  in  love 

When  all  the  birth-pangs  of  desire  are  lulled 

By  poppied  kisses,  when  not  yet  begins 

The  light  strong  life  of  love  that  lives  indeed 

Through  many  dappled  days  of  good  Spring  weather, 

A  pause  when  all  the  senses  are  bound  up 

Like  flowers  to  form  a  garland,  which  her  hand 

Will  scatter  for  delight  upon  her  bed. 

One  waits, 

And  glides  upon  the  crested  surge  of  days 

Like  some  sea-god,  with  tangled  dripping  beard 

And  smooth  hard  skin,  who  glimpses  from  the  sea 

An  earth-girl  naked  by  the  soft  foam  fringe, 

And,  utterly  forgetting  all  his  life. 

Flings  toward  the  shore,  is  caught  up  by  a  wave 

And  hurried  toward  her,  glad  with  sudden  love ! 

Even  in  that  pause  of  speed  I  live; 

And  though  the  great  wave  curl  in  spikes  of  foam 

And  crash  me  bleeding  at  her  cool  small  feet 

All  breathless  with  the  waters'  sudden  swirl, 

I  shall  be  glad  of  every  stabbing  wound 

If  she  will  hold  my  tired  limbs  to  hers 

And  breathe  wild  love  into  my  mouth  and  thrill 

Even  the  blood  I  shed  with  that  desire 

Which  throbs  all  through  me  at  her  lightest  touch. 


[78] 


BEFORE  PARTING 

Love,  though  the  whole  earth  crumble  and  rock, 
With  the  shattering  roar  of  the  guns'  huge  booming, 
Though  in  that  horror  of  din  and  flame  and  murder 
All  men's  blood  grows  faint  and  their  limbs  as  water, 
Though  I  return  once  more  to  the  terror  of  battle. 
Though  perchance  I  be  lost  to  you  for  ever — 
Give  me,  O  love,  your  love  for  this  last  brief  season, 
Be  mine  indeed  as  I  am  yours  for  ever. 

To-night  there  shall  be  no  tears,  no  wearing  sorrow. 
No  drawn-out  agony  of  hope,  no  cold  despairing. 
Only  we  two  together  in  a  sudden  glory 
Of  infinite  delight  and  sharp  sweet  yearning. 
Shutting  out  for  a  space  the  world's  harsh  horror. 

Kiss  my  lips  with  your  mouth  that  is  wet  with  wine, 
Wine  that  is  only  less  keen  than  your  lips  are, 
Slip  from  your  fragile  garments  as  a  white  rose 
Slips  from  under  her  leaves  to  the  naked  sunlight ; 
Give  to  my  eyes  your  straight  young  body. 
The  limbs  that  embrace  me,  the  breasts  that  caress  me, 
Hold  me  to  you  as  I  hold  you  and  kiss  me. 
Whisper  to  me  the  sudden  words  of  yearning, 
The  broken  words  that  speak  an  infinite  yearning 
That  delight  would  last  for  ever,  love  never  be  ended. 
Let  me  take  you  with  all  my  senses,  all  my  days,  dear, 
All  the  days  that  built  up  my  flesh  and  framed  me 
A  man  to  be  your  lover,  a  man  to  mate  you, 
A  man  whose  flesh  is  white  with  desire  for  you. 

[79] 


Take  me  also,  make  me  yours,  as  a  woman 

Who  knows  love's  torture,  who  is  burned  with  the  same 

burning. 
Only  can  take  the  lover  herself  has  chosen 
Until  his  broken  sobs  mix  with  her  love-plaint. 

Take  me  thus  and  I  care  not  if  death  come  after. 
For  to-night  there  shall  be  no  tears,  no  wearing  sorrow, 
Only  our  kisses  and  whispers  and  stabbing  heart-beats. 


[80] 


PRAYER 

Lord  and  father  of  life, 

Of  death  and  of  bitter  weeping, 

One  or  many,  pitiful  or  cruel, 

Hear  me,  my  prayer  beating 

Like  rain  importunately,  without  intermission, 

For  life,  for  a  little  life. 

Lord,  you  know  not  her  or  love 

If  you  let  death  take  me. 

I  will  speak  outright: 

No  God,  no  nation,  no  cause. 

No  life  of  any  man,  no  person, 

Nothing  created  or  living 

Do  I  love  as  I  love  her. 

I  do  not  ask  you  for  her — 

No  god  can  take  her  from  me. 

Take  her  kisses  and  lithe  body. 

I  ask  life,  a  few  years 

To  pour  out  for  her. 

Until  she  tires  of  me 

Or  age  loosens  my  sinews 

And  I  be  no  more  delightful  to  her. 

Her  body  is  honey  and  wheat. 
The  taste  of  her  mouth  delicate ; 
Her  eyes  overcome  me  with  desire, 
Her  lips  are  a  woman's. 
Under  her  feet  I  spread  my  days 
As  soft  silk  for  her  walking, 

[8i] 


She  touches  me  with  her  hands 

And  I  am  faint  with  beauty. 

The  embraces  of  her  body  are  wonderful, 

They  are  more  to  me  than  wisdom  and  honours. 

Therefore  I  am  not  wilHng  to  die 

Since  she  needs  me. 

For  her  sake  I  would  betray  my  comrades, 

I  would  rend  the  vesture  of  the  most  high! 

Yet  if  you  are  so  avid  of  blood 

That  even  she  cannot  move  you,    . 

Poor  God  without  a  lover, 

Slay  us  together,  mouth  to  mouth  and  happy 

And  we  will  thank  not  curse  vou. 


[82: 


I  do  not  even  scorn  your  lovers — 
They  clasped  an  image  of  you,  a  cloud. 
Not  the  whole  life  of  you  that's  mine. 

II 

I  do  not  even  pity  my  mistresses — 

Such  a  poor  shadow  of  desire 

Their  half-warm  passion  drew  from  me. 

Ill 

You  are  a  delicate  Arab  mare 

For  whom  there  is  but  one  rider; 

I  am  a  sea  that  takes  joyfully 

Only  one  straight  ship  upon  my  breast. 

IV 

Look,  like  a  dark  princess  whose  beauty 

Many  have  sung,  you  wear  me 

The  one  jewel  that  is  warmed  by  your  breast. 

V 

See,  as  a  soldier  weary  of  fighting 
Turns  for  peace  to  some  golden  city, 
So  do  I  enter  you,  beloved. 

VI 

The  scarlet  that  stains  your  lips  and  breast-points- 
Let  it  be  my  blood  that  dyes  them, 
My  very  blood  so  gladly  yielded. 

[83] 


VII 

Let  it  be  your  flesh  and  only  your  flesh 

That  fashions  for  me  a  child 

Whose  beauty  only  shall  be  less  than  yours ! 

VIII 

Everlasting  as  the  sea  round  the  islands 
I  cry  at  your  door  for  love,  more  love, 
Everlasting  as  the  roll  of  the  sea 
My  blood  beats  always  for  you,  for  you, 
Everlasting  as  the  unchangeable  sea 
I  cry  the  infinite  for  space  to  love  you ! 

IX 

Earth  of  the  earth,  body  of  the  earth, 
Flesh  of  our  mother,  life  of  all  things, 
A  flower,  a  bird,  a  rock,  a  tree. 
Thus  I  love  you,  sister  and  lover ; 
Would  that  we  had  one  mother  indeed 
That  we  might  be  bound  closer  by  shame. 


[84] 


ABSENCE 

Day  after  day  fades  from  me, 
Each  one  cold  and  wan 
Because  you  are  not  near  me. 

Night  after  night  drifts  past. 

Cheerless,  indifferent, 

Because  you  are  not  with  me, 

Because  I  have  not  your  lips  to  burn  me 

Awake  to  a  great  rapture. 

Because  you  are  not  gripping  me  close  to  you, 

Because  your  eyes  are  not  looking  into  mine 

With  the  keen  entreaty  of  desire, 

Because  the  loveliness  of  your  flesh  is  denied  me, 

Because  each  night  I  lie  alone. 

I  am  fierce,  indignant,  humiliated— 

To  be  chained  away  from  you 

When  I  desire  you  above  all  things. 

Half  I  possess  you,  half  hold  you,  half  keep  you ; 

But  would  all  of  you  satisfy  my  desire? 

I  am  insatiate,  desperate — 
Death,  if  need  be,  or  you  near  me. 
Loving  me,  beautifully  piercing  me  to  life. 
But  not  this,  not  this  bitterness,  this  grief, 
This  long  torture  of  absence. 


[85] 


HER  MOUTH 

I 

Her  mouth  is  a  crushed  flower 
That  unpetals  marvellously 
Beneath  my  lips. 

II 

The  perfume  of  her  flesh  stays  with  me, 
Dwells  in  my  mouth  and  nostrils 
After  she  has  gone, 
So  that  no  flavour  of  wine  or  flower 
Can  conquer  it. 

Ill 

The  crimson  that  dyes  her  lips 
Dyed  mine,  so  close  were  our  kisses  ; 
All  day  I  felt  its  soft  caress 
Making  smooth  my  lips. 

IV 

She  has  but  to  turn  her  head 

And  lay  her  lips  to  mine 

For  all  my  blood  to  throb  tumultuously : 

She  is  so  shudderingly  beautiful. 


When  I  am  bitter  sad 
With  the  emptiness  of  harsh  days 
The  memory  of  her  kissing  mouth 
Bums  me  to  gladness. 

[86] 


DAYBREAK 

The  naked  pale  limbs  of  the  dawn  lie  sheathed  in  dove- 
white  folds  of  lawn 

But  from  one  scarlet  breast  I  see  the  cloudy  cover 
slowly  drawn. 

Not  all  the  blood  of  all  our  dead,  the  bright  gay  blood 
so  gaily  shed, 

Shines  with  so  clear  a  glow  as  gleams  your  breast- 
flower  peering  from  our  bed. 

All  night  your  body  lies  and  throbs,  with  cries  of  love 
and  amorous  sobs, 

Close  to  my  blood-flushed  limbs  till  dawn  with  gleam- 
ing fingers  comes  and  robs 

Our  bright  bed  of  your  limbs  and  hair,  and  I  can  only 

lie  and  stare 
And  moan  in  weakness  for  my  loss  and  crush  my  brow 

in  sharp  despair. 

Ah,  bend  above  me,  dear,  and  take  my  life  breath  with 

your  lips  and  break 
My  body  up  as  wheaten  bread  and  use  my  very  blood  to 

slake 

Your  parching  sudden  thirst  of  lust!  Be  cruel,  love, 
be  fierce  and  thrust 

Your  white  teeth  in  my  fle^h  and  taste  how  honey- 
sweet  is  amorous  dust! 

[87] 


Ah !  slay  me  with  your  lips,  ah !  kill  my  body's  strength 

and  spirit's  will, 
So  that  at  dawn  I  need  not  go  but  lie  between  your 

breast-flowers  still. 


[88] 


SLEEP 

If  but  to  sleep  alone  be  fair 

As  poets  say, 
How  piercing  sweet  to  lie  all  night 

Until  the  day 
With  all  her  flower-like  body  pressed 

Close  unto  mine, 
To  feel  her  moving  heart,  to  taste 

Her  breath  like  wine. 
To  hold  her  pointed,  smooth,  soft  breast 

In  one  firm  hand 
And  let  the  other  lie  at  rest 

In  love's  own  land. 

Ah,  it  were  good  to  cease  and  die 

So  sweet  a  way. 
Never  to  waken  from  her  bed 

To  the  chill  day. 
But  sleep  forever  in  a  dream, 

Head  beside  head, 
Warm  in  a  golden  swoon  of  love — 

Divinely  dead. 


[89] 


A  SOLDIER'S  SONG 

How  sadly  for  how  many  nights 
My  dear  will  lie  alone, 
Or  lie  in  other  arms  than  mine 
While  I  lie  like  a  stone. 

If  she  remembers  me  or  weeps 

For  her  lost  happiness, 

Though  dead,  I  shall  be  pierced  at  heart 

For  her  great  loneliness. 

If  she  forgets  me,  if  she  gives 
Her  lips  and  limbs  to  new  desire, 
Though  dead,  I  shall  be  pierced  at  heart, 
Burned  stark  by  a  sharp  fire. 

I  would  not  have  her  pine  and  weep, 
Nor  would  I  have  her  love  again — 
Whatever  comes  after  I  die 
There  will  be  only  pain  and  pain. 

I  dare  not  ask  for  life,  I  dare 
Only  to  ask  for  utter  death 
So  that  I  may  not  know  she  breathes 
Life  from  another's  amorous  breath. 


[90] 


NIGHTS  OF  LOVE 

O  the  nights  of  love, 

The  nights  of  close  long  kisses, 

Of  the  passionate  clasping  of  two  bodies 

So  delighted  with  poignant  touch; 

O  the  nights  of  warm  adoration, 

Of  the  meeting  of  breasts  and  hands, 

Of  the  joining  of  flesh  with  flesh; 

O  the  nights  when  the  world  was  abolished, 

When  the  city  outside  was  forgotten 

When  the  moon  seemed  not  to  shine 

And  nothing  endured  but  our  love ; 

O  the  nights  of  peace  after  love, 

Of  sleep  with  her  head  on  my  arm. 

Of  our  breathing  mingled  as  one ; 

O  the  nights  that  were  day  too  soon. 

When  we  hated  the  Hght  of  the  sun 

That  severed  our  amorous  flesh ; 

O  the  nights  when  we  needed  no  God, 

When  we  needed  no  helper,  no  friend, 

When  we  needed  no  good  upon  earth  ; 

O  nights  I  shall  never  forget. 

You  will  sweeten  the  harshness  of  death. 

You  will  thrill  the  last  beat  of  my  heart. 

You  will  sooth  my  last  moan  into  praise. 


[91 


GAIN 

Let  not  the  jesting  bitter  gods 

Who  sit  so  goldenly  aloof  from  us 

Mock  us  too  deeply, 

Let  them  not  boast  they  hold  alone 

The  reins  of  pleasure,  the  delight  of  lust — 

We  also,  we  that  are  but  air  and  dust 

Moistening  that  dust  a  little  with  old  wine 

And  kindling  that  air  with  fire  and  love 

Have  burned  an  hour  or  two  with  blossoming  pangs, 

And,  leaning  on  soft  breasts  made  keen  with  love 

And  murmuring  fierce  words  of  rending  bliss, 

Have  gathered  turn  by  turn  unto  our  lips 

The  twin  wild  roses  of  delight. 

The  quickflower-flames  that  sear  into  the  soul 

Sharp  wounds  of  pleasure  and  extreme  desire. 


[92] 


POSTLUDE 

Have  I  spoken  too  much  or  not  enough  of  love? 
Who  can  tell  ? 

But  we  who  do  not  drug  ourselves  with  lies 
Know,  with  how  deep  a  pathos,  that  we  have 
Only  the  warmth  and  beauty  of  this  world 
Before  the  blankness  of  the  unending  gloom. 
Here  for  a  little  while  we  see  the  sun 
And  smell  the  grape-vines  on  the  terraced  hills, 
And  sing  and  weep,  fight,  starve  and  feast,  and  love 
Lips  and  soft  breasts  too  sweet  for  innocence. 
And  in  this  little  glow  of  mortal  life — 
Faint  as  one  candle  in  a  large  cold  room — 
We  know  the  clearest  light  is  fed  by  love, 
That  when  we  kiss  with  life-blood  in  our  lips 
Then  we  are  nearest  to  the  dreamed-of  gods. 


[93] 


EPILOGUE 

Back  we  go  to  the  shell-tossed  land, 

To  the  whine  of  the  shells  that  tears  one's  nerves 

And  the  crash  that's  only  not  near  enough; 

Back  we  go  to  struggle  with  mud, 

To  stumble  and  slip  on  the  greasy  hoards, 

Back  we  go  to  the  stink  of  the  dead, 

Back  we  go  to  the  sleepless  days 

And  the  unwashed  weeks  and  tht  mouldy  months, 

Back  we  go  to  the  thirst  and  the  dust. 

Back  we  go  to  the  grim  despair 

That  holds  a  man  by  the  heart  in  France. 

We'll  go  through  it  all,  the  fear  and  pain, 
The  breaking  up  of  body  and  soul, 
Take  our  chance  of  death  after  all. 
Of  face  or  limb  or  shoulder  smashed, 
Go  through  hell  again,  face  it  out, 
For  her,  for  her  love,  for  her  kiss  again. 

Sneer  or  snarl,  drivel  or  boast — 
What  does  it  matter  to  us  who  go 
Where  they  who  send  us  dare  not  go? 
All  one  to  us  are  the  rights  and  wrongs. 
The  nations'  squabbles,  the  nations'  lies; 
Not  one  land  more  than  another  land 
Do  we  love,  lovers  of  love  not  land — 
So  it's  up  the  line  and  hell  and  pain 
For  her,  for  her  love,  for  her  kiss  again. 


[94] 


/,  l/99^f 


Los  Angeles 


4>N\^0tC15 


^^C'P.  c.^  ^^"^ 


315 


L  006  211   932  6 


